


Into the Dark

by SweetPoffin



Category: Creepypasta - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Anxiety Attacks, Blood and Gore, Childhood Trauma, Eventual Happy Ending, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Mentions of Slenderman, Mentions of Zalgo, Multi, Psychological Torture, Stockholm Syndrome
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-04
Updated: 2018-02-04
Packaged: 2019-03-13 08:04:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13566333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SweetPoffin/pseuds/SweetPoffin
Summary: Darkness, that's all anyone could see in this realm. The darkness in the hearts and minds of the humans that lived in this world. Everything else means nothing to us. Some had little to no darkness in them, some have nothing but darkness in them. But everyone has a dark side. All through the dark void all we can see is the darkness of their hearts and souls. Then we saw a light, so bright it nearly blinded us.A small human child. The Mind, body, and soul. They were pure. They were the most pure thing we have ever encountered in our lifetime, like fresh snow that had just fallen from the heavens and have yet to be trampled on by the mistakes of mortals. Its gentle small form and flawless pale skin made it look almost as if it was a Porcelain doll. This child, this beautiful, beautiful child. Will be ours. Ours to keep safe and sound away from the destruction of the world and cruelness of its people, ours to cherish, to love, and to control.





	Into the Dark

 

The air was crisp and cold, the morning dew that was on the grass wet his feet as a mist was still resting atop the ground. These were the peaceful moments in life he enjoyed, watching the small droplets of water slid down between his toes and the base his foot. He sat on an old tire swing that father made when he was still just a toddler, it was damp as well but he didn’t mind his clothes getting wet or dirty. He was a child I didn’t care about those kinds of things. Looking up at the almost clear baby blue sky, he let out a breath that he didn’t know he had been holding. The chill of the air made it possible to see it, at times he pretended to be a train while he swung, it was one of the few forms of entertainment he had.

  
It was lonely where he lived, for he had no siblings nor any real friends and with how high the fences were he couldn’t even hope to see if the neighbors had any children his age. He doubted it, I never heard anyone ever even open the backdoor they had, and the overgrown grass had started to poke through the few holes of the fence. He was a normal child by all means, loved to run around and play, draw, build things and watch television. However what made him different wasn’t what was on the outside, but the inside. He was unable to feel any sort of pain, may it be emotional or physical, that made him hurt people he was supposed to care about when he didn’t mean to.

Sure he could smile or laugh, be happy or rather _act_ happy. Emotions never came easy to him, he didn’t understand them, he wanted to, but couldn’t. The way another child would start to scream or cry if they fell, or smile when they saw a small animal, it always made him sick to his stomach. He purposely did things to see how each individual person would react, pushing one kid forward would make them mad while another sad. Human emotions were intriguing even at a young age he was fascinated by their reactions, especially the negative ones, he felt was assumed to be joy or happiness when the first tears would streak down another’s cheeks when the crimson liquid would escape from a wound.

That was how the first few months of Preschool had went, and it was then that the parents began to act differently, the emotions they showed he was unfamiliar with, so he observed and listened. He would no longer see other kids his age or the friendly women that worked with them, nor would he see the colored pictures that covered the walls of that building he had become accustomed to, he would be locked up in his own home for his own protection. He thinks it was to protect everyone else from him, the problematic violent child that felt nothing.

While thinking of all those things, he would spin slowly around in his little swing, feet up in the air kept him from falling out of the tire. Arms lay limp beside his head, toes spread and he could see the dark clouds moving closer to the house between them, it was going to rain again. He didn’t like going inside, mother and father weren’t home yet and it was always lonely without them, he just wanted someone to talk to. All he wanted in life was a friend, someone who he couldn’t hurt no matter what and would never run away from me when he said something no one else would dare say to another in public.

The outside world is one he does not remember, he doesn’t have any more memories of what lies behind these fences or the big oak door that they have that stands tall to protect the family from intruders. The most he see of the world is the tall trees that hunch over the back of their yard from a small trail that he hears women running with their dogs in the early morning or late afternoon, there is a button that they push and for an hour lights on the path light the way. Sometimes he stays up late, watching the lights go on and off occasionally, watching the jogger’s silhouettes as they run by. He envies them in way, getting to run free with no care in the world aside from if they will make it to the end before the lights go out, trapped in darkness with whoever or whatever creatures that followed them.

There are times when he hears faint screams, or someone calling for help in the dead of night. But no one is awake to hear them, except for him, sitting on the windowsill and listening to the terrified shrieks of men and women of various ages. It doesn’t happen often, it only ever happens every few months or so. He doesn’t tell his parents, because then they would tell him not to stay up late anymore, the men in the uniform would return to the house and ask more questions about it.. He didn’t like those guys, they were a little scary, something about them always made him more nervous than he should be. Usually he doesn’t get nervous around people, but these people always seemed to give him shivers down his spine. His would stomach clenched up, even if he had done nothing wrong.

A light rain started, his ebony hair became damp, and felt his cheeks go cold, nose starting to numb. He would have to go inside soon before he got too cold, mother didn’t like it when he got sick because he refused to take that disgusting liquid medicine. He was fine with pills but not that stuff, it made him even sicker and because it was often pink if puked back out his vomit would be tinted pink. But getting the pills would mean he would have to leave the house to see the men in the white coats, he didn’t like them, they were just like the men in the uniform but they would touch him. He doesn’t want people touching him, he doesn’t want them even coming near him. He just wanted to be left alone by them, though he wished for a friend being alone was what he was comfortable with.

He never truly felt alone, feeling as if his shadow was his friend. It would follow him around and never leave his side, they'd stay with him while he slept and watched him while he ate. They would even stick with him when he would have to visit the hospital for check ups to see if his 'condition' was worsening or getting better.  
He considered the shadows, or more specifically his shadow, as the only thing that would ever really matter to him. As long as he had them, he would be content with his life. Although it would be nice to have some real friends that would respond to his questions, nothing could replace the need for interaction with another human being that wasn't a parent.

Getting up from the swing he made his way back into his lonesome house. He was odd, he knew that, a violent child that sat in the dark corner when his parents had guests over. But he had grown used to the insults they would whisper to each other behind his back, he doesn’t remember when he started but he began to keep track of who said what and how many times. An odd hobby, but a hobby nonetheless. His mother thought it was a cute little book with points on how much he liked someone or something along those lines, father didn’t care much about his hobby. The boy was just his sick and twisted child that he wrote books about.

He hated his books, they were overdramatic and made him sound like he was a depressed wreck that hurt people because he felt 'misunderstood'. Often times he would read parts to him, and overall the book series made him sick. His father made it sound as if he hated people all together, that he was just some sort of monster that had to be hidden away. He guessed in some twisted way that could be seen as the truth of his situation, mother always would scold father if he started talking to him about his condition and what he thought on it.

Mother on the other hand was a stereotypical good mom, making sure he was healthy and _happy_ with the life he was living. Packing up snacks into little baggies for him before she had to leave for work, he thinks she was a lawyer's assistant if he remember correctly. Thinking back on it, she was the real breadwinner of the family, much to his father's dismay.

Lavender was the faint scent you could smell once the entered home, every week father would return home from his outings with his publishers with a bouquet of them, since they were mother's favourite flower. He had grown so used to the smell mixed with a wood polish, since his parents took pride in how clean they could keep the house. Eyes looking down at the hardwood beneath his feet, a small puddle started to form.

Guess the grass was wetter than initially thought, leaving footprints as he stepped forward he made his way through the house to the laundry room where father would keep the spare towels that weren't in the bathrooms. They were rough and never used for anything other than to dry the floors if they got wet, which happened often since the rain never seemed to stop for more than a few days before coming back.

Drying his feet off along with the few wet spots, before disposing the towel, he was left to his own thoughts with nothing else to do. He could read or play with his toys for awhile, but he's read every book that isn't too complex for him to read in the house. He would play with his toys but he has no scenarios of what problems they would have to deal with that day, so it would be boring. That's just the way life is, when you have so much to do, you have so many ideas, then when you have nothing to do the ideas just suddenly vanish into thin air. Although he must admit he's not exactly a creative child in general, but he's not a lot of things that most children would be at this age. But that's never bothered him, being different is a good thing in some ways.

With quiet steps he heads to his destination, upstairs to his bedroom. Steep stairs acting as an obstacle between his room and himself, many times he has fallen down them. Gaining a new scar somewhere on his body, adding to the small collection he already had. Most from the stairs or counters he wasn't paying attention to and walked into, causing injury to himself wasn't uncommon but his mother worried for him when he was alone.

That's when most of the injuries occur, but he don't like babysitters, most were horrid women or men. The few he did like were liars that faked a smile and acted only how he wanted them to act, only to run away the first chance they got. After going through around twenty sitters, his parents gave up and started teaching him how to stay home alone since he was seven. The basics on what foods he was allowed to eat, not to open the front door for anyone even if they say they know his parents those sort of things.

The old wood beneath his feet creaked to life as he took the first step up those stairs, it made him cringe, hating the sound more each time he had to hear it. Walking up the steps his mind continued to wander, never was he ever not thinking about something. But at that moment, his foot was too close to the edge of the step when he made a move to walk up another, he lost balance. Time seemed to stop as he slid forward and in an attempt at balancing himself he ended up pushing himself back. Falling backwards, nothing was in his mind, never had it ever been so blank before.

Then he saw everything, his whole life flashing before his eyes was this what fear felt like? Knowing that if he fell down the seventh stair backwards, his weak spine would snap on impact, parents not due to be home for a few more hours. The space around him seemed to vanish as he realized that this was most likely how he would die, but he wasn't afraid. He realized what he was feeling, he was anxious, ready to see what it would feel like to slowly lose life at the bottom of these stairs.

He don't know why but he smiled, maybe he was crazy, all those times they whispered behind his back that he was insane maybe they were speaking the truth the whole time. Closing his eyes he was ready to see if snapping his neck on these stairs would hurt or not, he almost wished it would. Counting the seconds down, and noticing that he no longer felt the air moving around him, in fact he couldn't feel any movement at all. Frozen in place, unable to move his arms or legs, he opened his eyes.

All he saw was black. Looking around he couldn't see any signs of ever being in his home, just a void of darkness that he was trapped in. It was cold, he could feel that, it was so cold he could see the goosebumps already forming on his skin. Faintly being able to see his breath, the anxiousness of dying turning into curiosity of where he was.

That's when the limbs wrapped loosely around his body tighten, they were the reason he couldn't move. Almost like a snake, it slid along his torso and around his neck till he could feel something brushing against the lobe of his ear. The whispers that followed were almost like a chant, something he could barely understand despite them speaking so close to his ear. It sounded like they were still so far away, but as it began to increase it volume the words echoed in his head. The Thing began to push its way into his ear, into his mind and god did it hurt.

The phrase was simple enough that even if he tried I would never be able to forget, the pain had burned it into his brain. _Don't be afraid of the Shadows_ , as said before a simple phrase but not a common one. The thing squeezed his throat and pressed down on his windpipe, his body began to thrash, instinctively fighting back to get air. His vision darkened, until his eyes shut completely, but as soon as it started it ended. He was at the top of the stairs, both feet planted firmly on the ground.

It was at that moment he could confirm without a doubt that he was insane, hallucinating an entire scenario of falling. But it felt so real, he could still feel the leather like limb pressing against his neck. Fingers tracing the soft flesh of his throat, he could only imagine the bruise that would appear had it been real. But the whispered soon started, quiet like before but loud enough that he knew that it wasn't his own thoughts. Turning away from the stairs he rushed to his room, slamming the door shut loudly with his back pressed to it as he slid down to the floor. Bringing his hands up to his face he started to claw at his head, the voice was still there.

If he cleared his mind he could hear it so faintly like a whisper. All he could do was scream as he rolled onto his back, pulling at his hair now to try and drown out the voice. It wasn't real, he was just imagining it all, he was just a little insane child with no parents home to rescue from the monster that crawled it's way into his head. Breathing heavily he could taste the bile in the back of his throat, slamming his hands down on the floor with nails digging so hard into the wood he could feel them slowly being ripped off and the splinters making their way into the flesh.

Ripping himself up he tried to stand, tried to get to his bed but ended up back on his knees as the weights were dropped onto his back. Emptying the contents of his stomach onto the hardwood, but the worst of what was to be seen was the mix of red and black. The red was blood, he knew that for a fact, but the black stuff. It almost looked like oil had it not been so thick, the blood made perfect swirls in it.

He felt another scream rip from his throat as tears streamed down my cheeks now, the voice was screeching in his mind and there was no possible way to ignore it now. Letting broken sobs mixed with screams of agony escape him, he crawled onto bed as best he could. Forcing himself under the thick covers, as if it would become a barrier to help him escape. White dots began to cloud his vision before it all went to black, the screeching stopped and he was once again left in the dark void of nothingness.

**Author's Note:**

> First time writing a Creepypasta, I've had this saved for awhile just waiting to be posted. No beta, if you see any errors please let me know.


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